fandamily gatherings

I ate meals at me new table this weekend!  How very grown up.  I also reverted to eating dinner on the couch however on Sunday because P and I were engrossed in the television.  How very sad.  I am going to have to start binge watching the rest of Breaking Bad, I've decided because SPOILERS.  Usually I don't have much pity for people who whinge about internet spoilers (don't go on the internet if you don't want to know!) but as someone who is at Season 2, Episode 9, I'm feeling very pissy about the number of headlines on magazine style sites ruining the ending for me.  We've been very slow Breaking Bad watchers because it's so intense I find I need to space it out.  Hence, we're well behind.  Bear in mind that I've decided that one of these days I should really watch the West Wing.  I'm about 10 years behind the curve on everything.

Well, that was far too many words about television. 

Big fandamily weekend with my family this weekend, rather than P's.  At least I came home with my phone and my dignity when I was with mi familia...ohhhhhhhh I hadn't told you about that.  P's cousin was turning 28 and scorned us for our age and inability to party so I proved her wrong...no I didn't.  I went to Kingsland, finished getting completely soused and then fell asleep on my bedroom floor when P played party pooper and poured me into a cab.    Some kind stranger found my phone and a friend who called me the next day picked it up for me...that, right there, gives me some serious faith in humanity.  The guy reckoned someone had done it for him - phone karma, he thought.  I love him.  So true though - I've saved someone's blackberry before (scrolled through the contacts and called 'Wifey') so maybe I was due a cosmic good phone turn?  I also thought I'd lost my glasses and spent four very squinty, bloodshot days at work last week, but they turned up on Friday. 

(Let's not even discuss the Drunk In Charge FB behaviour shall we?)

I embraced my age at my cousin's 21st this weekend, accordingly.  Safe at home by 11.30.

i wish we could all just get along

I got all upset checking in on twitter last night.  I haven't been on it in forever and almost straight away, I happened across a furore over the misogyny of some members of the gaming community.  Boy, it made me mad/sad. 

Let me tell you straight up: I am not a member of the gaming community.  I got addicted to a game brick with Tetris once and my flatmates had to hide the batteries so I didn't fail my exams.  See also: the two week Crash Bandicoot episode of 2002 on an old PS1.  Other than that, I play solitaire on my phone and boardgames if people don't know me well (people who do know me well refuse to play with me.  I understand why.) Net result: hardly qualified to comment on the gaming community.  But! I am a human being and I think it is TERRIBLE that someone on twitter could express disappointment about the lack of major female characters in new release games at E3 and receive responses that, by and large, appeared to call her a dumb cunt and suggest that women don't belong in gaming.

SO.  Then I read the NZ Herald online this morning and came across this.   I think it goes without saying that people who object to homophobic slurs being yelled are allowed to attend rugby matches.  Probably can express their views without being subject to what sounds like verbal and physical bullying, even.  Hannah, good on you for saying something - I bloody well wish I had when I went to the cricket earlier this year and the guys behind me were being horrible and racist for a laugh. 

I was ashamed when watching the All Blacks game on Saturday night over the bad crowd behaviour, just from what I could see on the TV.  Why do we think it's acceptable to boo when the other team are kicking a conversion/penalty?  I wonder sometimes whether we Kiwis are just bad winners as well as bad losers when it comes to the All Blacks.  And other teams? 

There is absolutely nothing wrong with a bit of banter, but we need to raise our game in that regard and not rely on sexism/homophobia/racism/xenophobia etc for a laugh. 

So yes.  That's what's winding me up today. 

my house drama, let me show you it

In the spirit of wringing every last drop of personal drama out of the auction , I present to you a timeline of my pantswettingly exciting Sunday:

8am: wake, feeling smug.  Did not drink last night, rugby, guests and all.  Wallow in luxurious feeling of wellness.

9.30am: arrive at work.  Nearly clip wing mirror on entry to basement car park.  Look up house online.

10.30am: how many cups of tea are too many before midday?  Drink the place dry of Earl Grey while on a filing rampage.  Produce nothing of any real value.

10.35am: look up house online.

10.45am: return to producing nothing of any real value work-wise.

12 noon: give it up as a bad job because only hard things left to do.  Look up house online, then leave office.

12.10pm: arrive home to P on couch, watching old James Bond.  Eat cruddy noodles and get progressively more and more anxious.

1pm: pull out marketing material, lawyer's advice and re-review. 

1.10pm: raise "WHY SO NERVOUS?" question with P.  P reflects, then replies "because we might actually have a shot at this one."  We look at each other glumly.  We've gotten all hopeful again; not a good sign.

2pm: finally discuss with P what our top price is.  Get all desperate, shout: WHATEVER IT TAKES! Realise this = very bad tactic if I don't want to get ripped off.

2.30pm: leave house.  Feel ill.  Haven't felt this ill since one of the acronymed houses I very nearly bought. 

2.40pm: arrive at property for open home before onsite auction.  Greet agents.  Sneak around property, checking out details and eyeballing the competition. 

2.41pm: OMG I LOVE IT MORE THAN I THOUGHT I DID. This is most definitely not good.  Distinct possibility of tears if we lose, which is more likely than not. 

2.43pm: OMG GUY IN ORANGE PANTS IS HERE.  This is most definitely not good.  While Orange Pants Guy has been really nice when we've seen him and his partner at other open homes/auctions, we think he's got more to spend than us.  Start the decline into juddering-sigh-resignation. 

2.50pm: gather at front of house.  Awkward milling.  Small talk with auctioneer, who recognises us from various failed attempts to purchase real estate. 

2.52pm: eyeball the competition.  SO MANY PEOPLE HERE.  NOOOOOOOOOOOO.  Very cute couple with excellent taste in sunglasses takes a spot next to us.  They look ill; must be potential purchasers. 

3pm: Starts lightly spitting with rain, sky darkens ominously.  Cannot take off sunglasses because people will see the abject terror in my eyes. 

3.04pm: auctioneer starts talking throught the contract.

3.08pm: auctioneer calls for opening bid.  OH GOD SOME GUY ON THE STREET PUTS IN A BID STRAIGHT AWAY.  He must want it and we are dooooooooomed.

3.09pm: I shuffle my feet a lot.  Feel like heart is going to pound out of chest.  Clutch P's arm as bidding goes up, but slowly.  Another couple on street enter the bidding. 

3.10pm: cute couple enter the bidding.  They are slightly hesitant.  This is a good sign?

3.11pm: it is a good sign! I think they've topped their limit already - there are meaningful looks and whispered discussions with each bid.

3.12pm: P enters the bidding.  I lose my shit and cannot stand still.  Playing with my hair, shuffling my feet, clutching his arm.

3.13pm: P is slamming a bid straight back on anyone else who bids.  First guy has dropped out; very cute couple are having serious conversations before each bid, I can't see the others.

3.14pm: Auctioneer starts taking the piss out of P - "he's a robotic auction machine ladies and gents".  It is quite clear we are nowhere near cool calm and collected.

3.15pm: Bidding stalls on our bid.  We writhe with nervousness.  Finally, auctioneer goes to talk to the vendors as it hasn't yet reached reserve, while the agents work the rest of the potential purchasers.

3.17pm: Auctioneer comes to us: $10k more and I think it'll be on the market.  P agrees.

3.18pm: We're on the market.  Auctioneer invites any more bids. 

3.19pm: Third and final time - I bury my face in P's arm.  Where is Orange Pants Guy? Is someone going to try and do a last minute sniper and bury us?!

3.20pm: SOLD.  People clap (which is nice) - I am surprisingly dry eyed.  Notice rotten weatherboard on deck.  Think, oh well, that's MY rotten weatherboard. 

3.21pm: shake vendors' hands, sign contract etc.  Three months ago, we paid off the remainder of P's student loan, the largest single transaction we've ever made.  This is at least 17 times bigger than that. 

3.30pm: leave house.  Hey, Orange Pants Guy!  Turns out he just bought the house next door and is our new neighbour!  Meet other neighbours.  Such nice people.

3.35pm: Straight for Glengarry's to pick up a bottle of champagne.  Start calling family, disappointing them with news that we're indebted, rather than pregnant. 

BLAH BLAH BLAH the rest is basically irrelevant - mostly repetitions of HOLY SHIT WE JUST BOUGHT A HOUSE and HOW GROWN UP ARE WE and WHERE ON EARTH ARE WE GOING TO STORE THE SHEETS? 

The auction process really does suck, let me tell you.  We could have just made the stupidest financial move of our lives, given its a hot market.  Or not, perhaps.  Either way, I'm relieved and excited and scared in equal measures.  Four and a half months, likely 20 or so auctions, three building reports, six or seven valuations, a truckload of legal advice, a squillion open homes and here we are. 

life on the 21st floor is all a bit too much today

At least once a year (six monthly? three monthly?), I seriously reconsider my choice of career.  Why am I not doing something with little stress, easy + predictable hours and fuck-all consequences? Does that job even exist?  I'm probably still doing what I do partly because here is where I've found myself without thinking about it too hard, partly the money, partly the days where I enjoy what I'm doing (as elusive as they are). 

Eh, consider this whinge over - I think I've bled lawyer-moaning dry. 

Three hours later: NO I HAVEN'T.  Plenty more where that came from! I'll spare you more today, however, since I'm feeling magnanimous (can you feel magnanimous or is it more the nature of a thing? i.e. making a magnanimous gesture? clearly I can expend key strokes on it here but not in doing a spot'o'google on it.)

Possible career changes:

• Go back to check out at the supermarket.  Poorly paid, but the days went fast and I got to talk to people. 
• Horses.  Find a career involving them.  In the middle of a city.  Hmmm.
• Become Actress, Indulge in Theatrical Tendencies (said with a flourish requiring capital initials).  Shame I Have No Talent. 
• Um.
• Um.

As soon as I started seriously trying to brainstorm alternatives, I realise how poorly qualified I am to do much else but lawyering.  Teaching would require another diploma at the least (poor old P couldn't face a 7th year of me in post-secondary education), academia requires self-motivation which HA HA, I don't haz any really appealing writing skillz or ideas, I am numerically challenged and I'm IT illiterate.  Skills I do possess include procrastination, talking and making a really excellent brew of earl grey. 

Time for a cuppa and a bikkie, I think.    Play to your strengths.

i am stupid and i already have blisters

Can't believe I forgot to tell you this.  If I do say it, it becomes a real thing and then I can't back out.  That's the theory, anyway.

I'm gonna run the Auckland Half Marathon this year.

I know, I know.  Not exactly earthshattering or excessively ambitious.  I'm not running a proper marathon for charity, I'm not pushing the boundaries of human endurance for love, etc etc.  I'm just running a half marathon for a second time; the last was 7 years ago.  My knees will hurt, my feet will be blistered, the underside of my boobs will be chafed and dear god, that'll be enough to keep me moaning on here for MONTHS.  Good god, it's not even 'til November. 

But writing it down makes it real; as does the first run I endured yesterday.  I'd really like for 31-year-old-me to beat 24-year-old-me when the time comes but I'm not holding my breath (24 year old me was not exactly a speed machine but current 30-year-old-me can only race you to the bottom of a glass of G+T.)

Shame about the fact it's sold out already and muggins here doesn't have a ticket. 

An auspicious start, no? 

dull alert: of interest only to aucklanders currently active in the residential property market. the rest of you have been warned.

I do not yet know what my housing situation will be post-7 May 2013, when the extension to our current lease runs out.  Yes, that is an indirect way of saying we failed yet again at auction over the weekend. 

You must be thinking either:

(a) they have a warped perception of what properties they're looking at are worth; or
(b) they're hopeless at auction technique.

I'll admit that a couple of our offers have been of the cheeky 'can't hurt' variety.  Also in our defence, I think the market growth is rapidly outstripping some of the valuations we've obtained (case in point - the weekend's auction involved a house that sold for $136,000 more than valuation obtained a matter of days beforehand - auctioneer told us afterwards that he'd had some difficulty in keeping a straight face during the latter, obscene stages of the auction.  There were certainly audible snorts from disaffected members of the public attending the auction, though the lady over the fence was stoked).  I'd like to think our auction technique is pretty shit hot though - we've played the occasional sniper move to good effect (but yet, we are still Losers, note the Capital L). 

Basically, I think we need to retrench.  Keep it between you, me and the rest of the internet, but we think our options are:

(a) Give it up for now and hope the alleged 'bubble' bursts.  This is a gamble, of course.  Interest rates are good now and it would be good to lock a decent rate down.  Also, the rate at which Auckland is growing population wise is far outstripping building rates, so long term, investment in the 09 is sensible.  Plus, I just want to.  So there's that.

(b) Look for something further away from the city.  Major issue with this: you need to go a fair way in order to get cheaper prices.  I know from experience that I don't handle commuting well.  P might be OK with it, but he loves the urban lifestyle.  When we drew up our list of 'wants', being close to work was numero uno on the list. 

(c) Throw a bit more money at it.  Scares the bejesus out of me, but there it is.  Don't think I'm talking squillions extra here, but if we'd stretched a further $20k or so at previous auctions, I think we'd be home owners already. (RBATWAFD and SNWACK houses, I'm looking at you; in both cases an extra $5k probably woulda done it, speculation until the cows come home, etc).

(d) Look at something smaller.  Problem being, we're basically looking at the tiniest already.

OK, so this is basically a massive affluent person whinge and you're all entitled to scream "CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS, BITCH" at me.  Here is the defensive part: my diary (public consumption or no), my deal.  See also: mo' money, mo' problems.  We think the answer is a bit of a combo of (c) and (d).  I really don't like losing, so on we go. 

Advise me, o wise and venerable internets: strangers, this is basically the biggest invitation for ass-vice ever.  What would you do, were you me?

[sad trombone sound]

OF COURSE I didn't buy a house last night!

Close though.  POWER HUNGRY bidder over here nearly did everything she said she would (sweated profusely, for sure, ground teeth into oblivion, no vom though) and nearly succeeded... on the third and final call, dick-bidder upped the game and I was out.  SAD PANDA. 

Let the cycle begin again!  Long, slow, exhalations for us all...

rainy days and mondays

Another near miss, boys and girls.  We were closer this time though.  It transpired that SNWACK house had a host of building issues.  Accordingly, we dropped our bidding limit and predicted it would sell for the top end of our limit.  Whaddaya know, it did.  P briefly considered getting the bid in at our upper limit before one of the other interested parties placed it on the table, but I think we’re both glad he didn’t, given the breadth of the issues with the property (sleep out with no building consent and too low a ceiling, shoddy foundations etc, together with a host of other structural/non-structural issues.)  Back to the drawing board, at least this time with a little bit of a better sense of the market, I guess.  

That, being the above, was a boring paragraph.  Word of warning: it’s not going to get any better. 

Oh god you guys.  I’m a misery guts at the moment.  I’m experiencing some kind of hormonal clusterfuck, I’ve seen my mum (saying goodbye to her ALWAYS makes me emotional no matter the circumstances, for reasons I am unable to pinpoint), I’m overtired and I spent yesterday afternoon cleaning clumps of someone else’s shit out from under the rim of the toilet.  FUCK ME.  (Just deleted rant re houseguests.  I’m sure you can extemporise.) 

You better add to the catalogue of woe my concerns about my hair.  It’s gone a heinous dishwater brown and sobsobsob I miss blonde already, even bleached out frizzy nasty blonde.  DON’T DO IT, is my advice.  JC on a piece of toast, I’m a whinging narcissist with no sense of perspective and TERRIBLE hair.  

Oh yes, the visit to the farm was lovely.  Hung out with a horse, spent an hour or two pulling fleabane, ate steak, drank wine.  V civilised for the provinces, I must say.  Given all of that, my whinge seems even more ridiculous, but there it is. 

not today, either

You poor souls are going to get very tired of this progression:

- A sees a house.  She REEEEEEALLY likes it.
- A whinges about how it'll probably go for too much.
- A ties herself in knots imagining auction scenarios, sweating over the detail.
- A announces she's attending an auction today, WTF!!!
- A does not buy a house because her expectations of value and price are completely fucked.
- A adjusts her expectations marginally.
- Rinse, repeat.

Long-winded way of saying I didn't buy a house today.  I nearly did, for a while there, but then I didn't. 

We nearly cacked our pants on arrival, as we were the only registered bidders there for quite some time.  The agent was filling our ears with negotiation, conditional offers, blah blah.  Then some crackhead's agent arrived, obviously filled with the authority to pay a ridiculously high number, basically bid against himself to a point where we believe he would have been well over reserve. 

This is scintillating stuff, my house-buying-saga.  It has the potential to go for months, NAY YEARS and it will remain interesting to me alone because it's so fucking repetitive. 

Oh well, you can't win 'em all. 

weird free association

My god I'm terrible at ten pin bowling.  That's I what I learned this weekend (didn't need to learn I hated losing; already knew it).

I went with friends to an undisclosed location in Cambridgeshire for the weekend.  FINALLY FINALLY the sun came out and though it was crisp, we had some good weather this weekend for which I am eternally grateful.  I am also eternally grateful to have lovely friends who appreciate the value of laughter, even if it's IN MY FACE when I bowl yet another gutter ball.  Thanks guys; keeping me humble since ages ago. 

The fens in the East of England were verdant.  I spent an inordinate amount of time on the train on the way home thinking about fens and wondering if all the visions I'd had of Cathy and Heathcliff were completely geographically inaccurate.  I think I was seeing some kind of marshy arrangement but with heather for moors?  In any case, the fens were lovely and the rape flowers were glowing eerily where ever we looked. 

 CAMBRIDGESHIRE, MAY 13 2012.

Fields of rape always seem to have a kind of otherworldly glow to me, irrespective of the lighting and the time of day.  I always think of the ectoplasm from Ghostbusters when I see rape; I think I have a problem.*  Everything comes back to some kind of pop culture reference, which reminds me that I was flicking channels last night and came across a young Dan Ackroyd and Jamie Lee Curtis.  Made me infinitely happier than it should; P and I launched into Blues Brothers/Ghostbusters reminisces followed by a detailed dissection of the body count in True Lies.  WE ARE SO COOL. 

*Fields of rape are planted for rapeseed oil, just in case I needed to clarify that.  I appreciate this sentence sounds horrific if you don't realise I'm talking about the plant - SICK SICK SICK AND VILE! 

Warning: lengthy maudlin post ahead!  PMS and choc withdrawals have CLEARLY caused self-pitying behaviour…shameful stuff

There is always plenty of guilt wallowing in the Hopeless Household.  It is probably the result of being hopeless; the knowledge that when it comes to the small stuff, I am practically incapable of getting it right and always have been.  I seldom think through the consequences of my actions and am often in dreamland when performing a mundane task; examples include failing to switch the oven from grill to bake on a number of occasions (and wondering why the cake resembled fudge pudding, or why the chicken took three hours to roast but had exceptionally crispy skin), applying sunscreen to every part of my body except the back of my legs before sunbathing on my front, trapping fingers in the back of a horsefloat only to rip open the wound weeks later by trapping them in a boat hatch, popping a champagne cork into my cheekbone (first bottle of the night, FYI), constant bruises on hips and thighs because of a failure to judge exactly how close I am to a tabletop, desk, chair etc when walking...you've probably got the picture.  When my family call me hopeless or variations on the same theme ('Lemon', 'Useless', 'Dill', dopey behaviour in another referred to as 'Pulling an A'),  it's often done with affectionate as well as mocking tone - I think!  Sometimes the name calling is accompanied by a resigned sigh if I've been 'specially incapable.  But even though I am consciously aware of this character flaw, it doesn't seem to change my behaviour.  Hence, guilt.

But the guilt is much more multifaceted than that.  My most constant source of guilt at the moment is my work.  I'm not going to get specific about what I do, suffice to say I've had a change of direction in my career recently that feels like a mistake and I'm failing to give my all or best to the job as a result.  I hate being mediocre but it seems that the inability to 'win' at this job leads to a failure to care as much as I should, which leads to guilt which cycles back around.  And the guilt/scared feeling about the next performance review/future is terrifying, compounding the problem. 

The guilt also includes family/friend guilt.  I am hopeless at corresponding (in large part due to laziness and an aversion to phone chat, god only knows why but I've always hated making phone calls and vividly recall being unable to go rollerskating at about age 8 because I was too scared to call the rink to ask the session times).  So I feel guilty about neglected relationships all the time.  Still, it doesn't shift me from my inertia.  More guilt.  Guilt that this is a shittystupid problem to have when it has such an easy answer!

Money guilt.  I'm now earning a fairly solid wage yet failing to save it/spend it responsibly.  P thinks I'm a bit of a tightwad, 'specially when it comes to his spending, which, fair enough I probably am.  BUT the man knows how to spend!  He has spent the last three days online looking at speakers and amps and announced this morning that we were going to buy copious amounts of wine to curb his spendlust brought on by sound equipment he knows I don't want him to buy (that shit is expensive AND ugly!)).  However, the advent of online shopping in my life since moving from the third world has been like a transfusion of spendahol via internetty waves or tubes or however it is transmitted….

Body/image/drinking guilt, known generally as LACKING SELF-CONTROL GUILT.  Let's shelve that for another day shall we, I'm pretty sure there's a tragicomic contemporary novel in there somewhere….fuck, I fancy myself the Kiwi Jonathan Franzen, don't I?  I'm about 90% certain that I'm an effing genius waiting for recognition but when or if I ever did put pen to paper it'd probably be the worst sort of chick lit (yeah, I have read chick lit and I recognise it has a place, BUT.  You know). 

Guilt about not feeling guilty!  This one has to be a lady-spesh, amirite?  You know, where you're feeling all mopey and self-guilt-centric and then begin to feel guilty that your guilt isn't about the big issues like domestic violence and the abuse of children, or the plight of those in need etc etc…not to say that the big issues don't concern me (they do, and I often feel guilty for not being charitable with my time when I'm someone with a particular skill-set who could assist the vulnerable in some small way), but to say that I often feel guilty for not feeling guilty enough!  Could someone please hand me a hair shirt and a knotted cat'o'nine tails?  This is turning into a self-flagellation session the extent of which Dan Brown has not yet even dreamed!

This is where I should segue into discussion of some Worthy-with-a-Capital-W resolutions for the New Year but eff that, I'm not that self-reflexive.  In large part, I already know the answers to my wee guiltstravaganza, so I'm going to head out, buy some champagne with P and toast the New Year and the infinite possibilities for change it brings. 

And snapping out of the pityparty for a moment, here's to you and yours this December 31!   Whether your problems are bigger or smaller than mine, I drink to you and impart these words of wisdom: always ensure there is at least one person more drunk than you in the room!

in which I am a bitch at christmas. alternative title: no sugar for you, my dear

There is a new house rule instituted by P after Christmas: A shall not be fed copious quantities of sugar in any of its forms at family functions.  I became a scrabble psycho: "well that WOULD be a word if you could spell it correctly" and "how about you lay your tiles this side of next Christmas" (said this little piggy to P's elder brother).  I'm hoping you also think that board games are inventions deliberately aimed at creating family disharmony through competitive behaviour.  P thinks it was the fact I was crashing badly having earlier ingested a bottle of champagne and a block of choc (that's how I roll, literally AND figuratively).

THIS WAS HOW THE GAME STARTED.  THIS WAS NOT HOWEVER HOW THE GAME ENDED. 

NOTE ALSO: P'S HAND.  DOESN'T HE HAVE ATTRACTIVE HANDS?  AREN'T THEY ALWAYS POSITIONED RIGHT BY A DRINK?

I maintain however that there was more to it than eating enough sugar/fats to induce type 2 diabetes and playing a boardgame of which I SHOULD BE QUEEN.  Enforced familial time for a period of days in cold weather and a small apartment does not Miss Congeniality make.  I found myself unable to resist narky comments and while I could feel them coming on (like a sneeze, they build up quickly and explode all over someone else's face unless you trap them with a hand.  Net result is the same face from fam members that you would get for a sneeze on the tube/subway) it was like I lacked all self control.  Scrap that, I do lack all self control (see: choc ingestion earlier referenced).  But I have decided to put myself on a deliberate niceness campaign to the family for 2012.  That's right, the guilt isn't worth it.  Besides which, these are the only people who pretty much have to bear my company on holidays for the rest of my life, so I better start playing nice.  Internets, you're going to bear the brunt of it, I suspect...get prepared for a bitchfestoramaextravangza every time a pineapple lump passes these lips!